


Saltarello

by dirty_diana



Category: Medici: The Magnificent
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Canon Unhappy Ending, F/M, Friends to Lovers to Enemies, Love/Hate, Lovers To Enemies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-09 04:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20490350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirty_diana/pseuds/dirty_diana
Summary: It's a familiar dance--Lorenzo and Francesca are part of each other's stories from the start. Featuring classic Pazzi shade, and also Renaissance poet Lorenzo de' Medici.





	Saltarello

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Impala_Chick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Chick/gifts).

> Also filling the temptation square at historium. Indispensable assistance by Karios and Freeyourmind. Canon compliance is obviously approximate, but I did my best to make it work.

I hate and I love. Why I do this, perhaps you ask.  
I know not, but I feel it happening and I am tortured.

\--Catullus 85

*

When Francesca de' Pazzi was eight years old, both her parents died. She remembered only the droning, sombre funeral, and the whispered arguments of adults who thought she was not listening.

"Why?" she asked, when Jacopo came to retrieve her and Guglielmo from the Medici house.

A flash of something dark passed across Jacopo's face. In the future Francesca would come to know it as the first warning sign of his choleric temper. "Because I am your family. I do not know what your parents have been teaching you, but you will mind your behaviour, little one. Starting now."

Francesca frowned. Francesca's sharp ears could still catch Jacopo's muttered words as they left.

"Do not fool yourself into thinking the Medici are your friends."

*

By the time Francesca de' Pazzi was seventeen, she was thoroughly bored of feasts and balls. That did not prevent her from being obligated to go to them, and watch Lorenzo de' Medici circle through the guests like a peacock in silk velvet. When one of his circuits brought him to her side, she kept her eyes on her goblet, doing her best to ignore him.

"Would you like to dance?"

Francesca heaved a weary sigh, glancing over at Lorenzo. "Why? Have you tired of flirting with Lucrezia Donati?"

Involuntarily Lorenzo's head turned in Lucrezia's direction, passing over her smiling, shapely form before turning back to Francesca. "I have no idea what you mean." After a pause, he added, "You haven't answered my question."

"I rather think that I did." Francesca didn't move.

Neither did Lorenzo, standing easily beside her.

"What are you doing?"

"Keeping a friend company," Lorenzo said. "Obviously."

"Hmmn," Francesca responded noncommittally. Lorenzo launched into an animated litany of the latest exotic imported foods he had tried, the latest paintings he had hung, and the latest book he had read. Only when he had exhausted his explanation of some rather heretical-sounding opinions on the movements of the earth and heavens did Francesca move to speak.

"Thank you," she said.

Lorenzo blinked in surprise, distracted from his rambling. "What for?"

Francesca gestured to the bride, sitting quietly beside her jovial new husband. "For not saying I'll be next, or some similar inane patter."

"Doesn't it hurt being so angry all the time? Like the stem of a rose, pricking all who dare look too closely?"

Francesca rolled her eyes. "I take it you're still endeavouring to write the most terrible poetry in all of Florence," she said.

Lorenzo fell silent. Francesca sighed guiltily.

"I'm sorry. Your poetry isn't terrible. Not all of it."

Lorenzo had already recovered, his face breaking into his usual charming smile. "I was proud of the verse I sent you, anyway."

"You can't send me poetry," Francesca muttered, because there'd been nothing so shocking as waking up to the note slipped into her hand by a maid. "People will get the wrong idea."

He murmured something in Latin, and Francesca glowered. Grudgingly, Jacopo had sent her to lessons with Guglielmo, mostly in the hopes of bettering her marriage prospects. She'd found most of the Romans to be terrible boors. "Please do not quote Cicero to me. The man was an idiot whose philosophy bore no resemblance to the real world."

"Hmmn. But he was correct on this, don't you think? One should not be ashamed to say what is on one's mind."

Francesca raised her eyebrows, looking at him. "If one was a Medici, I would not suppose one had ever encountered shame to begin with."

"Medici. Pazzi. These are just names, Francesca, that do not define who we are." Lorenzo's words dripped with wine-soaked sincerity as he stared back at her.

"Perhaps," Francesca agreed warily.

Lorenzo's eyes lit up. Perhaps his smile was not so irritating after all, Francesca thought. "See?" Lorenzo asked her. "We have found one thing on which we do not disagree. It is a start."

"Perhaps," Francesca said again.

*

The years passed, but some things did not change. The Medici brothers remained happy and vain, always happy to have every eye in Florence gazing on them. And year after year, Guglielmo remained a truly terrible jouster. In the stands, Francesca shivered with nerves as the horses galloped forward, releasing it only when the lance that struck him managed only a glancing blow on his chest. Guglielmo at least managed to remain astride his horse.

He dismounted, waving first to the place where Bianca de' Medici was seated. Bianca waved back, an open expression of relief on her face.

Francesca's narrowed her eyes at the sight. Francesca could admit Bianca had had grown, willowy and confident, into her Medici charm, but Guglielmo would not be so foolish. Would he?

The thought worried at her through the jousting feast. With Jacopo so close, she dared not ask the question out loud. 

*

When Jacopo was in Florence, he ruled over the household with a tightly closed fist. Francesca was never allowed to stray further than the front door of the Pazzi palazzo, except to go to mass on Sundays. Francesca supposed that Jacopo's strict rules were an improvement on being sent to be cloistered forever as a nun. That did not mean she had to like it.

When Jacopo was out of Florence, the usually tense household relaxed just enough for Francesca to take the occasional stroll.

One Thursday morning she decided to take just such a walk, circling the avenue with her cloak pulled up to guard against the bracing November wind. 

She was not expecting Giuliano de' Medici to come tumbling out of a balcony window, landing on his hands and knees in the street.

Francesca's maid started, stepping backwards in surprise. Giuliano stood, and winked at them both in greeting.

"Francesca," he said, as even as if this was any boring meeting at Sunday morning mass. "I did not expect to see you here."

"Obviously." She glanced up. She knew the ladies who lived in this house, but could not begin to guess or care which one of them Giuliano had been visiting. "Just as well I was not standing underneath Messer Ardinghelli's window. I'm sure Lorenzo does not have your grace."

"He does not," Giuliano agreed cheerfully. "Not as handsome as me, either. His taste in women is also in question, if you ask me." He studied her with knowing eyes.

Francesca frowned uncertainly. "I didn't."

"Yes, well, just the same."

Francesca looked up at the window, mind racing as she wondered how to extricate herself from the conversation. "You should be more careful. I could have been anyone."

"Could have been," Giuliano agreed, "but in fact it is you. You wouldn't try to cause me trouble, would you, Signorina Pazzi?" His smile was still charming, but Francesca heard the way he placed a hard emphasis on her family name.

She met his gaze. "I suppose you'll find out."

He nodded his head, first at Francesca and then her maid, still standing silently a few steps away. "Always a pleasure. Signorine. I wish you a good day."

Guglielmo was in the courtyard when she got home, pacing. "Francesca! I woke up and you were gone. You must not disobey Jacopo."

"I hardly think that I'm the only one of us who risks angering Jacopo," Francesca answered as she removed her cloak.

Guglielmo shook his head back and forth in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

Francesca thought of Bianca, watching breathlessly from the jousting stands. "It does not matter, little brother."

*

The next time she was in the streets without permission, she was by herself. She moved along the busy vias without thinking, and found herself at the Medici's door. The servant who answered looked faintly alarmed. He bowed hastily, moving to bring her to Lorenzo as quickly as he could.

Francesca struggled to rearrange the dark, unhappy expression she knew she must be wearing, but Lorenzo hardly seemed to notice. He leapt up from the chair in his study, carelessly dropping a book on the desk as he did so. His eyebrows rose at her unexpected appearance. He frowned, peering at her closely. Francesca raised her fingers to chin, found the skin warm to the touch, and realised there must be a visible bruise forming there.

"Who did this to you? Was it Jacopo?" Lorenzo demanded.

Francesca couldn't bring herself to betray her uncle, or even speak, but Lorenzo understood her silence anyway. He moved towards the door in a rush. "I'll speak to him at once."

"Sit down." Francesca raised a hand to block his path, surprised when she made contact with his shoulder. Lorenzo hesitated, and took a step away from her. "You have been reading too many plays if you think that will help."

Lorenzo looked taken aback, but he sat, drawing her to the chair beside him. "You are my friend, Francesca. You have ever been so. What caused this?"

Francesca took a breath, seeking calm before answering. "I am to be married."

He reached out a hand and brushed the hair back from her face. As likely to be checking her for further injuries as offering comfort. Lorenzo's mind always worked too quickly. "That sounds like cause for celebration, not violence."

"I told Jacopo no." She did not know why she had said that now. She had known it would not help.

Lorenzo hummed, brows drawn, still thinking. "Your betrothed can't be that bad, surely?"

"He is a merchant. As old as my uncle, at least. He lives in Genoa."

"Ah, now I see the real problem." Lorenzo stroked her hair again, and Francesca couldn't imagine what reason he might have this time. "Guglielmo will survive. He will write you long letters full of nonsense, and be happier knowing that you do not worry too much for him."

She shook her head. "Guglielmo is soft. He is too kind. My uncle will devour him, without me here."

"Yet it is only natural for you to leave your uncle's house."

Francesca's skin flushed with irritation. "You do not need to state the obvious to me--"

"Francesca," Lorenzo interrupted gently, taking her hand, "your brother will be fine." And then because Lorenzo de' Medici could never manage to stop talking, he added, "Perhaps Guglielmo will get married too, and have someone new to look after him. Perhaps even I will get married, and we will all be wedded and happy before next Natale."

"Perhaps the Arno will turn to wine, and your imaginary wife will drown you in it," Francesca said. Carefully she drew back her hand.

Lorenzo only looked amused. His mouth lit up with a smile. "Here I thought you didn't like poetry."

"Poetry is quite useless," Francesca said. She rubbed her fingers in the draped silk of her dress, finding that she missed the comforting warmth of Lorenzo's grasp. It was unexpected, and she blinked down at her hands.

Lorenzo was speaking. "If Guglielmo needs help, he can come to me."

Francesca shook her head, looking at him in surprise. "You would do that for him?"

"Maybe I'd do it for you," Lorenzo answered. Francesca had no idea what to say to that. Despite Lorenzo's urging she walked home alone, thinking over his words and her worrisome future with every step.

*

She was married before the end of the month. The Genovese merchant was fat and kind, distracted by his work most of the time. He had a gentle voice, which he rarely used to scold her as Jacopo had. Still, Genoa was far from home, and Guglielmo's letters seemed to come too slowly.

*

By the time Francesca returned to Florence, Guglielmo had left Jacopo's household. Married to Bianca de' Medici, of all the foolish things. He'd written her about it. Francesca could read the unwritten lines, and know how close he must have come to being outcast from Florence, or worse. Jacopo met her for dinner on her first night, glaring at her over the candlelight. As if it was her fault that the merchant had keeled over in his sleep, and that his younger brother had despised her. She was selfishly glad there'd been no children to bind her to the household.

She returned home to find her brother banished from Jacopo's house, and the Pazzi and the Medici banks at war over the favour of the pope.

Jacopo was as strict as ever, but he had many things on his mind, and for the moment she was the only substitute he had for a true heir. Francesca was allowed to come and go to the bank as she wished, learning of all that had happened in her absence.

She did not expect Lorenzo de' Medici to have noticed. The letter, delivered on a hot and sleepy August morning, came as a surprise.

*

"I received your note," Francesca said, accepting a goblet of wine from Lorenzo's proffered grip, "but I can't imagine what business we have."

Lorenzo sketched a small bow, as he stood by the desk in his study and poured more wine for himself. "Perhaps I merely wished to welcome you back to Florence."

Francesca raised both eyebrows. "This required a private meeting, did it?"

"To tell you that I was sorry to hear of your husband's death, and that I have missed your presence in Florence? Perhaps it did." 

Caught off guard, Francesca said nothing. Lorenzo looked at her earnestly.

"I need your help, Francesca. I'm sure you know of your uncle's attempts to undercut me in Volterra."

Francesca didn't waste any breath denying it. "What does that have to do with me?"

"I need you to look at the Pazzi records. I need to know who Jacopo is paying in Volterra." Lorenzo launched into a long-winded treatise of the war he feared, and how the destruction of the Medici's plans would surely mean the destruction of Florence with it. 

The worst part was that Francesca wasn't certain that he was wrong. She listened, scowling. "Not even Jacopo would do something as dishonourable as ask me to spy for him."

"We both know that's only because he hasn't thought of it. Please, Francesca."

"I am a Pazzi," she said.

"You are my friend," Lorenzo replied with disarming certainty. "And I know you love Florence as much as I do. So." Lorenzo stared at her. His eyes were blue and deep. "Will you help me? At least consider it. Please."

Francesca struggled to form an answer. For her uncle's sake the reply must be no, and yet she owed no loyalty to a man who had cast out her brother.

Lorenzo, damn him, saw her hesitation. "Think about it," he insisted. When she put down her empty cup and left, she had not agreed to the deed. But neither had she turned him down. 

*

Sneaking through the rooms of the bank at night, doing her best to keep her candlelight hidden, Francesca felt like a thief. She peered through the ledgers written by her uncle until she found the names, frowning closely at them. She slipped the scroll into her skirts.

Lorenzo was right. Her uncle could not be allowed to cause war for Florence. Even if it meant helping the Medici.

*

She returned to Lorenzo's house the next day. Instead of looking victorious as she had expected, his brow creased with worry. He took the scroll, fidgeting with it in his hands as he studied her.

"You could come live in our household," he said. At her sideways glance he added softly, "To be with your brother. It would not be scandalous."

Francesca glared at him. It was a weak cover for her shock. Her voice grew sharp. "Your wife will approve of this arrangement, will she? Will Lucrezia Donati be moving in as well?"

Lorenzo stared at her, and for a moment she could not tell if she had made him angry. Could not even tell if she had been trying to. She'd heard, through a carefully worded sentence in one of Guglielmo's letters, that Lucrezia and Lorenzo no longer carried on their affair. Perhaps that reminder was the reason for the sadness that passed over his face. "My wife is a formidable woman, who has been overly patient with me," he said, finally. "But I wasn't suggesting that sort of arrangement."

"Why not?" she asked, her tone bitter.

"Because until this very moment, I had no idea you wouldn't slap me for it." He ducked his head as he made the admission.

Francesca held herself tightly upright, stalling nervous laughter. "I still might. I hate you, Lorenzo."

He held her gaze until the urge to laugh subsided. Then he kissed her.

She certainly should have slapped him, Francesca knew. She was a widow now, and not the seventeen year old girl who had been grudgingly impressed by the easy way he grabbed attention in every room. Instead she made no move to push him away, and Lorenzo's kiss only deepened in the moments before he released her.

"Well," she said, keeping her voice as steady as she was able, though her lungs felt tight, "you see why I cannot live with you."

There was sadness in his gaze, mixed with longing, and an undercurrent of bitter amusement. "Perhaps you are right. I have promised my wife I would try to a better husband and this does not have the makings of the best path to take." He sighed against her mouth. "You are always very disruptive to my plans, Francesca."

"Yes. You can't break a promise."

Uncharacteristically, Lorenzo seemed to be searching for words. "I break a great many promises, to be honest with you. But you are far more discerning with your words, so promise me this. If Jacopo hurts you, or punishes you, you will come. Immediately."

"I…" her voice trailed off as Lorenzo stared at her.

"Swear it, Francesca." His voice muted to a whisper. "On your parents' souls."

"I hate you," she repeated, more loudly this time.

He kissed her again, whispered, "Francesca. Please."

"I promise that I will not let Jacopo hurt me."

"That will have to do, then." He grasped her hand as she turned to go. "Will I see you soon, in any case? At the next feast day, perhaps."

She wondered what had become of the promise he'd made to his wife, but the question stalled on her tongue. "If you look for me," she said, "then maybe you will."

*

She did attend the gatherings of the next feast day, trying to ignore the way her stomach flipped at the soft warmth in her eyes when he saw her. He looked tired. Perhaps the episode in Volterra had taken its toll, but his face brightened as he smiled in her direction.

"Francesca. I am glad to see you well."

"Yes," she said. "It would have been awkward for you to have been the cause of my demise, however indirectly."

"There is that." Lorenzo paused, considering her with intent eyes, then added, "Come with me to the garden."

Francesca's eyes flickered around the room. Clarice Orsini was deep in conversation. There were no eyes on them in this moment.

"I cannot," she said.

"I notice you do not say that you will not."

"Games with words are your specialty. Not mine."

"Come with me to the garden," Lorenzo entreated again. His words were almost pleading, whispered beneath the sounds of the party.

The moments stretched. A lyre plucked notes of music that floated on the warm air.

"Yes," Francesca said.

*

She was never able to identify exactly what Jacopo knew, or thought he knew. He looked at her over dinner one night, a fig on the end of his knife, and said, "I know you are a widow now, and perhaps able to manage your own affairs. But I would have thought you cared more for your reputation than to be gallivanting with Lorenzo de' Medici."

"It is thoughtful of you to be concerned, Uncle." Her voice was cool. She knew well enough that Jacopo only cared for his dead wife and his unending feud with the Medicis. Francesca added, "I have no business at all with Lorenzo de' Medici."

"That is not what they are saying." Jacopo paused, and Francesca let the silence rest. He would reveal his full meaning well enough.

Shortly, Jacopo continued. "It is normal to be lonely after losing one's husband. But Lorenzo de' Medici uses men and women alike. He wishes only to spy on our affairs. Surely you see that?"

Francesca pressed her lips closed against any words that would be too revealing.

"Even now he conspires against me and all of Florence, Francesca. To say nothing of how careless he is with your reputation."

Francesca stood. The legs of her chair scratched against the floor. "I think I will retire. Good evening, Uncle."

*

She could not say for certain that Jacopo was wrong. The thought sat like a knot in her stomach until it became a full-blown ache. Her uncle was right. Lorenzo had never shown an interest in her until he had needed something.

At a party she spotted Giuliano de' Medici, noticing the way Simonetta Vespucci leaned towards her as he whispered in her ear. The Medici had no respect for anything, she thought, or anyone.

*

If Lorenzo wondered why she stopped answering his letters, she never knew. Each note was returned, unopened.

*

The next vote was lost, as was Jacopo's attempt to gain the Pope's ilium accounts from the Medici bank. Jacopo moved through every room of the house like a dangerous storm.

"The Medici cannot be allowed to rule Florence," her uncle thundered. "They have no regard for propriety, or even the pope. Something must be done."

"You are right, Uncle," Francesca said. The uncomfortable feeling that weighted her body since her uncle had spelled our Lorenzo's treachery hadn't dissipated.

Francesco Salviati folded his hands in his lap, looking at both of them. "I think something could be done. But perhaps it is best to make sure we are all thinking of the same thing."

Francesca took a breath. She thought of Lorenzo, his eyes so close to hers in the garden. "It must be both of them," she said. "It is the only way to be certain of taking Florence."

*

Later, in the Duomo, all that Francesca could remember was how slippery blood made the dagger in her hand, and the screams of Lucrezia Tornabuoni as she was pulled away from the paling body of her younger son.

*

They dragged her inside to face Lorenzo. Francesca knelt on the floor. She could hear the roaring jeers of the crowd outside.

Jacopo was nowhere in the room. Florence had abandoned her. 

Francesco Salviati and the mercenary spoke, words washing over her, but Francesca could tell that they were barely heard. Lorenzo was staring at her, as if he could neither bear to look at her or to look away. The others were dragged away. Lorenzo turned to the men still with him.

"Leave us," he said.

The men had shown no care for her when she was arrested, but now they hesitated. "We can take her to be executed with the others," one said, his voice nervous.

"Leave us!" Lorenzo shouted. His face became twisted and terrible with the force of his anger. The room emptied out.

Lorenzo had been sitting on the room's largest chair--like a king on his throne, Francesca thought dully--but now he stood.

"Francesca." His voice broke, then grew firm again. "I have no idea what to do."

She said nothing.

"Tell me what I am to do, Francesca. Am I to have a woman hung from the rooftops?"

"Spare me your pathetic mercy only because I am a woman," she spat.

"It would not be because you are a woman," he said. He took a breath. "I loved you."

"The Medici love only themselves."

"That is Jacopo talking. I have loved you since I was small." Despite the words, his voice was not soft, but instead very, very hard. "I have loved you since I was small, and now my brother is dead."

Lorenzo choked on the end of his sentence, and for a too-long moment Francesco thought his tears might fall. When he recovered his composure, he spoke again.

"Did Guglielmo know?"

Francesca shook her head, struck with the first sensation of fear she'd had since entering the Duomo. "Guglielmo knew nothing. He is innocent."

"Innocent," Lorenzo repeated dully.

Then he was silent. She could not tell if he believed her or not. Her heartbeat was still surging too quickly beneath her ribs. "Very well," he said, finally. "You scheme like a man, and you wish to be punished like one. Medici. Pazzi. These have always been just names, Francesca. But your name is a name no longer. I will have it burned out of every corner of the city. It will be as if it never even existed." 

Francesca bowed her head. "You must defend your family. As I have defended mine."

Lorenzo's face tightened. He clutched his dagger, then took a step forward.

Francesca held her breath, nearly gagging on it.

Lorenzo came no closer. He stood, looking at her. "You do not wish mercy. You will hang with the others."

"Yes," Francesca said. She looked down.

Perhaps he had loved her. But that could not matter now.

*fin.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, come say hi on [tumblr](https://sweeter-than.tumblr.com) or [dreamwidth](https://dirty-diana.dreamwidth.org)


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